


Exhaustion

by acerbitas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Seriously Theon is forced to stay awake for like 5 days, Sleep Deprivation, Thramsay - Freeform, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/pseuds/acerbitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay Bolton feels like experimenting with what will happen when a person goes without sleep for far too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acerbitas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acerbitas/gifts).



> Thanks Acerbitas for the editing and suggestions!

Ramsay brought Theon to the Great Hall--the first time the pulverized boy had set eyes on the place. In fact, the first time he’d been let up from the dungeons at all.  
Twitching, his prisoner kept his eyes on the floor, except when he stole a look at Ramsay. The skin around Theon’s knuckles was turning purple; his fists were clenched so hard Ramsay was surprised they weren’t bleeding.  
Theon’s eyes were as wide as a child as he stared at the feast below, and he clutched himself tight, as if it would hide his shame. Ramsay felt the front of his breeches get tighter as he examined Theon. The bitch had not slept at all the night before: Ramsay’s orders to the night-shift guard had ensured that  
Unfortunately Ramsay had been kept awake by Theon’s screams all through the night. He’d have to punish him for that disturbance, later. Ramsay had made sure to keep the mutt within his sight at all hours that he, himself, was awake, so his prisoner couldn’t slink off to some dark corner without proper permission.  
The feast roared on casually, and most of the men took no notice at Theon, though some scoffed at him in pitying disgust or fascinated revulsion. Theon wished he could become invisible, and shrink into the dark recesses of the room, away from their prying eyes. His filthy rags, stained with blood and dog piss and worse, made the men across the room wrinkle their noses, and his hair and face looked like that of an untamed wildling--a weak, pathetic mockery of a wildling.  
I was the son of the Iron Islands once.  
But now he was not, and he had nowhere to hide. Not Ironborn. Not nothing. Just Reek. Reek belonged to Ramsay, and he couldn’t escape from him, In a way, Ramsay protected him from these men, some of whom liked to jest: “I’ll fuck that mutt in the kennels,” one had yelled, and another...another...Reek didn’t want to think about the other.  
“Well, what are you just standing around for, Reek?” hissed his vicious keeper. “Get to it. Make sure all the goblets are full of wine. Keep the food coming. If any of my men find their goblets empty, or if you shove anything into your own rotten rat mouth, I’ll strip you naked right here in the hall and beat you until you have no skin left to flay. Do you understand?”  
Theon took a weak step back and nodded slowly, head tilted off into the distance. His lips quivered, but he did not make a sound as he feebly tended to the guests as ordered.

 

#

 

When the next morning came, he was still there, this time on his hands and knees with a thin brush scrubbing bits of decayed food sludge out of the crevices in the floor.  
“Go faster, Reek.” His captor sat at a chair at the end of the table, one leg propped up casually. It was early daylight now, and the others were all still asleep. Ramsay had ordered a kitchen wench to stay up through the night and make sure Reek did not fall asleep, under threat of being his next hunting prey, but Ramsay had dismissed the wench to bed minutes before so he could watch the creature himself. “I fear I am growing bored. I do not wish to sit here til midday, you know.”  
“I...I’m sorry mi’lord.” He hung his head down low and dragged the cleaning brush over the stone once more. He had not slept since two nights ago, and the lack of rest made his movements slow and weak.  
His fingers shook, and as he ran the brush over the stone, he had to push himself back to reality. Oblivion was calling him, and oblivion was nice, until Ramsay brought him out of it and made him scream.  
“Sorry means nothing,” snapped Ramsay, suddenly shoving the chair away and striding towards his captive. Theon shrunk back, but a hard kick to his stomach forced him still. “You are clearly taking too long with this method, so you will clean the floor in other ways.”  
“Other ways….mi’lord?”  
“With your mouth.”  
Theon looked down at the floor with dismay. It was made of thick stone tiles with deep cracks between them, which were filled with years’ worth of debris: vegetable scraps so decomposed they had oozed into dark green sludge; rancid meat goo that made him gag at the smell; flaky dust that stuck to the slime.  
“Use your tongue to get the rest of the floor under this table clean or I will knock out every tooth in your mouth and hammer nails into the bloody holes. Do you understand?”  
“Yes...mi’lord.”  
Theon forced back his waves of nausea and his tears. His chest heaved, the stone floor scratching viciously into his thin legs.  
He bent to his task. His first discovery was so revolting he almost vomited before forcing it from his mouth and into the basket. Again, and then again. Once a rotten piece of carrot made him hack, and when he dropped it back on the floor, Ramsay bashed him on the top of the head.  
“Why do I have such bad dogs?” he snarled.  
“I’m sorry...I’m...I want to be good.”  
“Keep going,” Ramsay told him, and he did.

 

#

 

The next night, his tormentor found it fit to have Theon brought to his bedchambers.  
The wretch could barely stand as he wavered on hobbled feet in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, and he shook, wracked with goosebumps all over his pale flesh. His bones hurt. His muscles hurt. Everything hurt, and everything froze him, straight down to his bones. He had never been deprived of rest this cruelly before.  
“You were getting cold in the dungeons, surely. And tired, you must be so tired.”  
Theon’s heart leapt. “I was, mi’lord.” He’s taking pity, Reek thought, my...my lord knows I’ve been good. His heart jumped, and he wound his hand together.  
“You look so miserable. I cannot even imagine.”  
“Yes...I...I am freezing, mi’lord.” Theon winced somewhere in his mind, the part of his mind that clung to his dignity. I must not admit weakness to this bastard, he thought, this bastard who only mocks and tortures me. But he could not stop, and somehow the words kept tumbling out. “I am so exhausted that it has frozen me to the bone. I can hardly stand. Please, oh please, take a bit of mercy on me, mi’lord.”  
Ramsay smiled sickly and slowly rose from the bed.  
“You remember what we discussed before,” he purred. “You have no right to make demands of me.”  
Theon hung his head, head wobbling and body swaying. “Yes mi’lord. I’m sorry mi’lord.” No, no, no… “Please. i’m sorry. I don’t want to make more mistakes.” And then Prince Theon burst into tears.  
“And here I was, trying to take mercy on you. I thought you might benefit from a change of surroundings. Of course, your revolting body never had any place staining my sheets with shit from the dungeons, but I thought you could be my serving man tonight, and warm your bones with the nice glow there from the fire. But be warned, Reek. If you fall asleep or get too comfortable I will heat the fire poker and shove it up your ass and leave it inside of you until the next day.”  
Theon’s experiences in the dungeons made him believe that Ramsay was not lying.  
A defeated keening whimper broke its way out of Theon’s throat. “...Yes, mi’lord.”  
“Now, I think I want my wine goblet filled. And my pillows fluffed. And my warmest blankets brought out, and the sheets straightened. Get to work.”

 

#

 

On Theon’s fourth night with no sleep, he could no longer bring himself to stand. He sat slumped outside, alongside the kennels. A rainstorm pelted down on him, turning the dirt to mud and half-burying him like quicksand.  
I would not mind getting pulled down, he thought wistfully. It would be warm. I could find rest. There would be no more knives there. He did not fight the mud. If it took him, he had been loyal, been good, and maybe Skinner would get a taste of Ramsay’s blade. Reek smiled at that, before quashing it down in panic.  
Skinner sat on top of a cage a few feet away, sheltered by an overhanging roof, whittling a piece of wood with his flaying knife and eyeing Theon suspiciously. Theon’s gaoler had chosen the most vicious of his henchmen to supervise him, under orders to skin him as much as he liked should the captive even let his eyes fall shut or surrender to his urges to lie down.  
Theon glanced suspiciously around the yard. No one was there. Theon looked back up at Skinner, wistfully, pleadingly, trying to catch a spark of humanity somewhere in the eyes of the other man.  
The chunk of saliva dripped down Theon’s face and down to his lips before he even realized he had been spat upon.  
“Go on and sleep, pet rat,” said Skinner with a smirk. “If you do, I’ll have a new pair of gloves made with your skin. I’ll flay your entire back and chest this time, and that scrawny ass of yours. Please, sleep, Prince Theon. Go on and do it.”  
Theon’s chin began to quiver uncontrollably, and he heard the sick sound of inhuman keening as his head fell down onto his chest. Rainwater pelted upon him, but he could not distinguish it from his tears.  
Then his vision began to blur.  
Then he slumped down into the mud and his vision went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon receives his punishment for falling asleep, and then his reward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, this is acerbitas! I have looked this over like 2384230089 times. I'm not so sure about it, but AI has been encouraging me to post. So I hope you all like it. :)

Ramsay's knives ripped into Theon’s face, tearing at his skin.  His torturer popped out his eyes, tore into his lips, and gouged his cheeks.  Ramsay kept going until Theon wasn’t _Theon_ anymore. The world was arid and grey, like it had been lit on fire and smoke was all that was left.   The prisoner slipped from his body, hovering above it.

He watched with dull curiosity as Ramsay’s knives did their work. The stench of rotten blood overpowered him, and he fled, seeking refuge in the ash and smoke.  Looking for, _hoping_ for, death.

 _Such a strong dream_ , he dimly realized somewhere in the back of his mind.   _Even the smells seem real._

Dream. Sleep.

He had fallen asleep!

Theon jolted awake.  A sick lurching feeling crawled into his stomach. The prisoner’s head spun, and the world shifted violently beneath him.  He had fallen asleep against orders: Ramsay's orders.  The prisoner’s bladder betrayed him, then, and hot liquid burned into his ragged clothes.  Shame bit him, and it took courage to open his eyes.

Ramsay himself stood above him.  Theon felt a loose tooth in his mouth, and blood poured from his nose. The pain woke up then; it had blessedly remained asleep without him for awhile.  His eyes were swollen and one felt strange, like it was bleeding.  Then, Ramsay’s boot slammed into his jaw.

Theon whined and curled in on himself.  An emaciated, smelly ball of fear.  "Please mi'lord."

Theon hated himself.  Sometimes, he hated himself more than  he hated Ramsay.

Ramsay glanced up at Skinner, who still sat perched on top of the dog cage, smirking.

"What do you think, Skinner? Shall we accept his pathetic plea of 'Please mi'lord?" He repeated Theon with a girlish mocking whine.  The heat of shame flushed Theon's bruised skin.

Skinner lept from the top of the cage to join Ramsay’s side.  He shook his head, snorting at the thought. "Let me flay him. But first..." a slow smile crept up Skinner's lips. Theon's blood ran cold. That smile on Skinner never meant good things for him. "I have an idea."

Ramsay nodded curtly. "I always like ideas when they pertain to my pet, and when they help give him new lessons to remember to mind his betters. Tell me."

Theon held his hands over his face, groaning.   _Not a pet,_ he told himself.   _Not a pet, and better than him._  But he wasn’t sure he believed it; he was disgusting and fearful.  Cowed.

"I say we strip those rags off him and tie him up over there." Skinner pointed to the stake the middle of the courtyard. "Give people orders to throw stones at him. And our bannerman? You didn't hear it from me, but a lot of them haven't seen a woman in years, if you get my drift."

Ramsay shrugged.  "That sounds like something he'd respond to.  But I don’t want his head bashed in."

“Makes good sense,” Skinner agreed.  “He’s dumb enough already.”

They both laughed.

“Did you hear that, Reek?”  Ramsay crouched down so he was nearly at Theon’s level, and watched his prisoner shake.  “I know you won’t like it, but you need it this time.”

Theon scrambled back into the recesses of his cage.  Putting both hands over his face again, he moaned into his palms; his words were indecipherable.  He crouched back into the furthest corner, watching his tormentors from behind mutilated fingers.   _I’ll fight them,_ he thought.   _I’ll...I’ll fight._

"Reek."  Ramsay squatted down by the cage entrance.  "Reek, you need to come now."  He said it in his soothing voice, the one that said: if Theon just listened, just obeyed, it would all be over soon.  The one that said Ramsay always knew best.

Ramsay hadn’t used that tone in the beginning, but now Theon knew he was supposed to obey.  He pretended he was Reek now, and sometimes, in the dark, he believed it.  Being Reek got him Ramsay’s soothing voice, extra scraps of food, and a torch outside his cell.

"I'm sorry.”  Theon tried diplomacy, even as his last meal burned ominously  in his throat.   "I don’t want to be... please don’t..."

"Please don’t _what_ , Reek?"

"...Please don't...don't let them take me m'lord."  Theon hid his face further; he was treading on dangerous ground.  "I'll..."   _I'll do whatever else you want._  But Theon would do that, anyway.  He had nothing to give, nothing to bargain with.  Theon hung his head.  "Please...I'm really sorry."

“Don’t you deserve it?”

A sob escaped his chapped lips, and Theon ran a grimy sleeve over his eyes.  He knew that in Ramsay’s world he did, and nodded reluctantly.  Theon wanted to claw Ramsay’s heart out, but instead he whimpered.

“Well, let’s see how well you take the first round.”

Theon set his jaw in a hard line, but his bowels felt watery.

"Now, that’s settled.  Right?”  Ramsay smiled at him, almost sweetly.

Theon nodded.

“Now come, boy.”

Theon didn’t.

Skinner snorted.  “You’re far too nice to the bitch.”

Ramsay turned and looked at Skinner.  “You have to give them something, sometimes.  Otherwise they won’t obey.  This is why I don’t put you in charge of my hounds.”

Skinner shrugged, and Ramsay turned back to his errant prisoner.

“I told you to come, and you have not."  Ramsay sighed, and in that sigh he suggested even worse things for Theon, if he did not obey.  "If you are going to stay in the kennels instead of the dark, you have to come, like a good dog."

Theon felt hot tears on his face; he crawled towards Ramsay, who grabbed him by the hair and yanked him from his cage.

"Much better."  Ramsay pulled Theon close to him, twisting his hair until Theon cried out.  "I do these things to teach you to be better, Reek.  You can't even come when I call you.  This is what you need."  Ramsay smiled at him, all benevolence, all-knowing.

All fake.

Skinner nodded at Theon, a glint in his eyes.  His grin was not so kind.

Theon bowed his head, trying to hide his terror; his tears betrayed him.  He didn't want to be taken; he could take the stones and the shouting, and he'd...Ramsay had stripped him before.  But he didn’t want them to touch him.  His chest was a tight ball, and it felt like it was about to burst.

Ramsay led him to the courtyard, and Theon balked at the site of the stake.  It was where Ramsay had him whipped.

“No,” he snapped, the ball of rage so wild in chest he could no longer fight it.  “No!”

Ramsay slammed a fist into the back of Theon’s head, and Theon crumpled in the mud.

"Strip.  I don't care if you don't want to do it.  You need to learn, Reek, learn to obey.  I can always put you back in your little dark cell."

“I’m...sorry," the prisoner managed through gritted teeth.  Theon stared at the muddy ground as he pulled off his ragged shirt, and shut his eyes when his pants fell.  He shifted, grew apart from himself; he could almost feel men holding him down, laughing at him.  And there was nothing he could do, because he was weak.

"Reek," Ramsay said, from far away.

Theon felt his captor’s hands on his face, rubbing his cheek, bringing him back.

"Good boy," Ramsay told him, before pushing him towards the stake, where a long, ominous chain waited.  "When you need to be punished, I don't need you to beg.  I need you to obey."

Theon nodded, but his whole body was shaking severely.  The nods might have just seemed like another fit.  "Yes.  I'll obey."  His glassy eyes were fixed on the stake.

"You pleaded for mercy earlier, when you knew you needed to be punished."  Ramsay gripped his prisoner by the back of the neck, leaning forward to hiss in his ear.  "Why do you need punishment, Reek?"

The quivering, naked man was silent.  Around the two men, a small crowd had gathered, staying at a far away, safe distance.  Nobody wanted to get in Ramsay Bolton's path.

"Why?" Ramsay snarled, squeezing his fingers into Theon's flesh and flinging him down into the mud.

"B-because my lord is so good to me," Theon gambled.  "My...my lord is so kind he...he feeds me and...I'm an ungrateful traitor.  That's why?"  He hoped against hope that was why.  Who knew what else Ramsay could unleash?

Ramsay didn't say anything as he chained Theon by his neck to the post.

"It's...it's because I'm...Reek?"  Theon despised Reek almost as much as Ramsay, sometimes.  Other times, he slipped into Reek’s skin, and stayed there, where it was safer.

Ramsay stepped back, still silent.

Hanging his head, Theon shuffled close to the wood and tried to curl into a ball around it.   _I was wrong.  He'll hurt me more.  He'll...he'll..._

The Bolton cupped Theon's cheek with one hand, and petted his head with the other.  "That's why," he said.  "And all of this," he continued, "will be for your own good."  Then he leaned down and kissed Theon on the cheek, as if they were lovers.

Theon guarded the pitiful food in his belly, so he would not vomit.

"We'll start," Ramsay told the other man, "with the stones.”

Theon watched Ramsay's retreating boots.  He felt the mud sticking to his legs and thighs; he tried to turn in a way that hid as much of his naked body as possible.  He’d grown gaunt and...miserable.  Clutching the wood tight, he barely felt a splinter tear into his thumb.

The prisoner didn't want to see who would hit him.  It was better that way, because he didn't start shaking if he saw one later, by the kennels where he slept.  That did him no good.  Theon waited, but nothing happened.

He peaked open one eye, and saw only Skinner, watching him, his face contorted in a grin.  Theon knew what Skinner wanted, and what Skinner would probably get later.  But for now Theon closed his eyes, and pretended Skinner was on the cross, writhing in agony.  Behind him, a few voices grew into many, gleeful and excited.  Theon felt a flash of hate, before he murdered it.  It disappeared like all his other dangerous emotions, into some darkened pit.

“Is that who I think it is?” the voices whispered.

“I think so. It’s the turncloak. That bastard killed innocent children!”

The whispers grew louder, buzzing more and more excitedly as their contempt got stirred up. Here was their opportunity to hurt and humiliate him, the Traitor in the North, the one whose fault it was that all the power had gone into the hands of the most evil house in Westeros.

They babbled excitedly about the children, and it became all Theon could think about.  Oh, how they had _screamed_.  One had pleaded, and whimpered, and, and, and--  Theon clutched his hair in his hands, yanking, punishing.  He didn’t want to think about their  faces anymore.  Now it was his turn to scream.

By the time the stoning started, Theon was dizzy with dehydration and fear.  What most prisoners did, when about to be stoned, was try to avoid the stones by darting around.  Theon clutched tighter to the pole, and clamped his legs firmly together instead.   _Ramsay will be less cruel if I just take it, instead of trying to make it stop.  He’ll have the Reek he wants._

"Move!" somebody yelled.

"Get him up!"

Theon didn't move, even when a stone struck him so hard on the back he saw pricks of white light.   _No,_ he thought, _no, it doesn't matter if I move._  Ramsay had gotten him to stay still when he was whipped, or strapped, or...anything, really; this was almost the same, except the stones came from different people, and they wanted him to rise.

A stone bounced against his skull, the sound reverberating in his aching head.  The crowd was getting fiercer; it had an unstable quality that made Theon shiver.  It was in these rare moments he wanted Ramsay, the fake Ramsay, the one with salves and milk of the poppy, the one who took care of him in the dark.

"Move!" A voice called out again; Theon thought it was the same voice as before.

Maybe...maybe he was supposed to move; his back was rivulet-ed with blood.  But Ramsay had taught him with pain and knives and blood.  He looked around for his captor, but didn't see him anywhere in his line of vision.  His breathing was rough and unsteady.

Theon's heart thumped faster, faster; he felt as if the world was moving sideways and he was the wrong way up. _Where is he?_  "My lord?" he asked, as loud as he could.  Then, he whined; his hands were shaking furiously.

He didn't mean to call out; Ramsay would think he was begging for it to stop.  But Theon had learned to slip away while in pain, to sneak into a special place in-between living and dying.  He didn't think Ramsay knew about that place, and Theon wasn't going to tell him about it.  He was sneaky, just like Ramsay said.

Another stone walloped him on his back, and there was more yelling.  To the prisoner it seemed incoherent, something far away and unimportant.  Theon felt the sickening, unsteady feeling that meant he was about to faint. _At least then, it will probably be over._

"My lord?" Theon called again, huddling down in the mud.  He was calling because he didn't know what Ramsay would want him to do, and that was all that mattered.  Theon had had enough of the knife; it had cowed him, and he was too scared to be ashamed.

Nothing happened.  Theon tasted tears of despair on his lips.  A ragged sob came out of him, and then another.  He was alone; Ramsay had left him here, alone.   _How am I surprised?_ Theon thought, bitterly.   _Maybe it’s the end._

But then Ramsay was there, next to Theon, his dark boots sunk into the mud beside him.  No more stones came, but the agony where they’d struck grew stronger.  Theon gasped; the world spun.

"What, Reek?"

Theon couldn't read Ramsay's expression.   _I want it to stop,_ he thought, choking on his tears.  "I don't know if I'm supposed to move.”   _Please make it end._

A long pause.  "It doesn't matter.  You're done with that."

Theon was too surprised up to respond at first.  He leaned his head against the stake, and watched as blood pooled against his chin.  "Thank you," he said finally.

Ramsay's voice was soft but firm.  "Gratitude is good thing, Reek."

Theon's head dropped further, and he clung closer to the wood.  "Yes."

“Good dog.  You were obedient with this: can you be obedient even when you’re not chained?”

Nodding vigorously, Theon felt a deep ache in his heart.  It was so powerful it pumped through his whole body.  The need for Reek’s Ramsay, kind Ramsay, was crushing him.  He needed the Ramsay that took care of him, and sometimes, if he was good enough, was kind.

Most of the time, Ramsay was kind at just the right moment.  As if it had all been planned, and Ramsay knew something about Theon that Theon didn’t.  He probably did.

Theon had stopped caring that it was all a lie, the biggest lie that Theon had ever known.  Ramsay knew Theon needed that lie to slip into Reek’s skin.  Maybe, someday, Theon could forget kind Ramsay wasn’t real.  Theon was getting good at forgetting.

Ramsay undid Theon’s chain, and clutched his prisoner by the hair.  Leaning in close enough to bite off Theon’s ear, he whispered:  “Out of curiosity, would you rather be fucked here, or have Skinner to take a knife to you in the dungeon?”

Every breath felt like fire, and above the screaming pain in his back, Theon heard himself babbling nonsense.  He tried to say something, anything, that was meaningful.  Instead he moaned.

“I’m taking you to the dungeon.”

Usually Ramsay was angry when he didn’t respond properly, but he wasn’t.  Not this time.

“Put on your clothes and follow me.”

Ramsay hardly gave Theon any time to find and pull on his pants before he was off.  Quaking, back sticky with blood, Theon followed.  It’s going to be both, I know it, he thought, savoring the feeling of being clothed.  That’s what happens when I am too stupid to answer.

At the corner of his vision, Theon saw Skinner following.  The Bastard’s boy looked like a hungry dog on the trail of a wounded deer.  The awful creature was grinning.

Theon legs trembled beneath him, and the world looked distant.   _Ramsay will be mad if I faint._  Theon’s heart jumped clumsily at the thought.  Behind him he heard a child mock his limp.  Theon clenched his fists.

As they walked through the castle, Theon left behind a sopping mess of blood, rain, and mud.   _Going to get in trouble,_ he thought, shivering, _dogs shouldn’t get mud in the halls._ _Ramsay says._  When he’d started going by what Ramsay said, Theon wasn’t sure.

The prisoner’s leg’s buckled; his eyes rolled up in his head.  His body jerked, and spittle ran out of his mouth.  Then everything went dark.

The next thing Theon felt was water hitting him in the face.  He squirmed, let out a shuddering gasp, and realized he was being held up by two burly men. They released him, and he tumbled to the floor.  It took more than one try to get up, and when he did, he recognized where he was.  He was back in the dungeons.

Ramsay gestured to a cell Theon had never inhabited.  It wasn’t so dark as his usual cells, and it had more straw.

Theon trundled inside, bowing instinctively to Ramsay.  He waited for the next horror, Skinner, who was standing beside his lord.  The torturer was a leering mess of teeth and violence.  When Skinner stepped forward, however, Ramsay grabbed his arm.

“You can have him tomorrow,” Ramsay snapped.  “The bannermen, forget it.  The maester says nothing else today.”

The prisoner wanted to give Skinner a wry grin, but he couldn’t.  He knew he couldn’t, never; his mouth was half crooked teeth, half scars.  So instead he stood, head bowed, and kept his smile to himself.   _Take that, you miserable shit._  It felt like a victory in Theon’s upturned world.

Skinner sulked away, grumbling about maesters and about how Theon wasn’t that valuable anyway.

Ramsay lunged at his prisoner.  He grabbed Theon’s head with both hands-- _I know that stupid name,_ Theon thought, the reflex leaping from deep inside of him, _I know!--_ and walked him back until his back was pressed against the stone.

“I know it!” Theon insisted, pitifully.  “I’m Reek.  Reek, I know, I know that’s my name; it rhymes and--”

Ramsay clamped his hand over Theon’s mouth and rolled his eyes.  “You’re a stupid cunt.”

Theon was speechless.

“The maester told me to stop it, or you’d die.  I waited and watched you.  The whole time you just sat there like the stupidest cunt, waiting to die.”

Staring at Ramsay’s boots, Theon felt nauseated, and saw the pricks of black that heralded another fainting.

Ramsay withdrew his hand from Theon’s mouth.  “Do you want to die and leave me?  Is that it, Reek?  Think something better is waiting for you?  Because it's not.  Understand?  I’m all you’ve got, you silly thing.”

 _I just wanted to make you happy,_ Theon thought, despairing. _Because I stayed still.  It’s hopeless._

“I’m not supposed to move when you beat me, my lord.  I--I--”

Rolling his eyes again, Ramsay grabbed Theon’s shoulder and flung him into the straw.  Kneeling beside him, Ramsay grabbed his prisoner’s jaw.   His long nails dug into Theon's skin like barbs.

“Look at me,” he snarled, and Theon did.  “If you’re about to die, and it’s not me holding the knife, bloody do something.  I can’t believe I have to make that an order.”

_I didn’t know I was about to die._

Somewhere in the depths, Theon felt terror rush over him, unstoppable.  He’d somehow endured so much pain that he didn’t know when he’d get to die from it.  It had become part of his world.

“Yes, m’lord.  I’m sorry.”  Theon would never understand Ramsay; Ramsay loved to bring him to the edge of death and then yank him back again.   _Is it a game?  What is it?_

“You’re stuck here.”  Ramsay’s grip was fierce.  “You’re not getting away.  I won’t let you run, and I won’t let you die.”

Theon nodded vigorously, peering into Ramsay’s eyes.  The despair that ate at him seemed somehow far away, buried between who he had been and who Ramsay wanted him to become.   _He cares about me,_ a small voice insisted, _he doesn’t want me to die._  “Thank you...thank you my lord.”

Ramsay snorted, ran his fingers along Theon’s jaw.   _"Master."_

"...Master."

“The maester insists he sees you.  I give you permission to take what he gives you.  Including milk of the poppy.”  Ramsay’s finger traveled down Theon’s neck, stopping on bruises and blood.  “I don’t want you to die, Reek, just _learn_.”

Theon opened his mouth to sputter out more gratitude, but Ramsay shoved his hand over his mouth yet again.

“You’re my Reek.”  Ramsay's voice was husky, almost bizarre.  “You’re going to be my dog.”

Cringing, Theon barely prevented himself from scampering away.  He wanted the maester, and he wanted that milk.  But the feeling in his veins was sick; it screamed at him to run.

“Right, Reek?”

“...Of course, my lord.”  Theon had no idea what being Ramsay’s Reek meant, but he knew about Ramsay’s knife and the days he’d already spent whimpering without water or bread.  He knew about the lower cells, where there was no light at all.  Being Ramsay's Reek was better than that, he knew.

Smirking, Ramsay pushed a thumb over Theon’s forehead.  “Remember, it’s Skinner tomorrow.  Better be a good boy for the maester.”

"Yes, my lord."

Ramsay stood up, smirked, and excited.  When the door was locked, and Theon left alone, the prisoner began to sob.

Laying his head on the straw, Theon wailed and sniffled like a boy.  Then maester came, and filled him with what must have been all the milk of the poppy he had been denied that month.  The prisoner knew it had been given out of pity, but he was grateful for it.  He was grateful for the shirt on his back, and the straw, and Reek’s Ramsay, even if he wasn’t real.

Theon lay on the floor and imagined, in his poppy-fueled ecstasy, that Ramsay cared about him.  Ramsay had protected him from the bannermen.  Ramsay had let the maester take the pain away.  Ramsay had made Skinner wait until tomorrow.  Ramsay cared.  Ramsay wanted him to learn, so he had to punish him.  Theon--Reek--could be so bad.

He was making himself nauseated, sick even, but he clung to his fantasy anyway, embellishing it.  As he fell asleep under the intoxicating load, he believed, at least for awhile, that all the lies were true.  When the lies were true, being Reek was more bearable.  Theon could be Ramsay’s Reek, he could, if he could only _believe._


End file.
